Finding Something Lost
by Moore12
Summary: It's a simple story: a boy trying to find the father he's lost yet again. Or is it really that simple? Running out of options, Sam enlists the help of an unexpected tracking program. But will he find what he's looking for or something far more sinister?


_A/N (please read)__: __This is my latest attempt at a full length Tron fanfiction. It is NOT a sequel to "The Fourth," rather it takes place directly after Legacy. Essentially, it's about Sam trying to find his father with the help of one of his dad's old friends (won't tell you here because that will give away the mystery of the Prologue). It will pretty much have every character from the movie in it, and will have some fairly significant plot twists and philosophical moments in it. So..if you like it please review. I love hearing what people think, and I'm so busy I will pull the plug on this if I don't think anybody's enjoying it. So R&R and enjoy! ~Moore12~ _**_  
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**_Finding Something Lost... _**

_Prologue _

I

His eyes are what betray his age. The weariness and disillusionment in them contrast so sharply with his youthful exterior, effectively revealing the deceptive nature of his existence. "Look," he mutters, those blue eyes staring right through them, "I can't help you. Why don't you just find someone who can?"

They've tried everything to make him see that they need his help; they've tried reasoning with him, tried emotional appeals, tried making him feel guilty, tried stroking his ego, and even tried bribing him. Nothing has worked, and now they feel about as exhausted as he looks.

But Sam's not about to give up, not when there's so much at stake, not when he knows that this might be the only way to find what they've been looking for too long. Shaking his head with frustration, he bites back a scathing retort because he knows that won't do any good. Instead he says as calmly as he can, "Look, we wouldn't be asking you if we didn't think you could help."

"And I'm telling you I can't. If it's so important, go find someone who can."

He's so stubborn for someone who clearly has no fight left in him, Sam thinks as he tries to stare him down, hoping that maybe intimidating him will work even though he's fairly certain that it won't. No, this wasn't an individual that could be intimidated—he had seen too much, lived with too much pain for too long. If there was anything left of the traits that made him so highly regarded and effective, they had been pushed deep within his very core.

Being abandoned hadn't been good for him.

Before Sam can try the next logical argument in line, Quorra breaks in. Somehow, she manages to smile even though it's becoming clear with each passing second that this plan, like so many that came before it, is about to backfire. Her patience and smile, though they amaze him, are enough to make Sam believe for one small moment that maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay. "Why don't you think you can help us?" she asks, repeating a question they've already asked him in several different forms to no response. "You walked in and out of the Pentagon and…"

"Look where that got me," he laughs sarcastically, a rueful smirk forming on his previously emotionless mask of a face. He pauses as if to give his words adequate time to sink in, and then mutters almost sadly, "Nowhere."

His dad, who sometimes seemed to have an infinite number of expressions, would always say that "sometimes you've just got to take the bull by the horns, man." As for this particular bull, it feels to Sam as if he had already been gored repeatedly and been left for dead because of heading such advice. Still, if he had inherited anything from his dad, as clichéd as it sounded, it was his lack of regard for personal safety and inability to quit anything he started. Most of all, he had inherited his rashness. "Look," he growls, well aware that there are only two things that could happen because of this decision, "You seem to think we're asking for your help. We're not. You don't have much of a choice after all."

Even though Quorra shoots him a warning, slightly irritated look, Sam still feels triumphant largely because it appears that he had finally broken down his unexpected adversary's defenses. He looks like he would cry if he was able to, but Sam's not about to relent because, honestly, he's not the one that matters in this situation. "You're here only because we wanted your help, and we could easily put you back right back where you came from."

For a moment, he's convinced that he's going to get what he wanted, what he's dreamed about for so long…too long to wait for anymore. But instead of finally conceding, of finally offering his much needed services to them, he just lets out a low, long growl. Then an oppressive silence falls down upon them, a silence that feels like it will crush him if it isn't lifted soon.

Finally, he laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs, as if something incredibly funny that only he is aware of happened in that long period of silence. When he speaks, his voice is dry and filled with pain: "So I don't have a choice, eh? Is that how little you care about me?"

Another painful silence descends before he adds bitterly, "Can't say I didn't know. It just comes with being what I am."

So it's true then? He's going to help them end their painful search after so long? For some reason, though, Sam can't relish the victory like he thought he would for reasons he can't fully explain. It's Quorra who actually puts words to the overwhelming sense of failure he's feeling even though he knows they will most likely win in the long run: "You do have a choice, Ram. As much as I want you to help us, it's not right for us to force you to."

Ram just shakes his head sadly in response, pain in his blue eyes that can't be mistaken for anything else. Sam, in that moment, can't help but feel sorry for him—a broken down, discarded actuarial program turned hacker that is far too human for comfort in many respects. So he forces himself to remember why he's even here, that they're the only reason he was retrieved from backup for so long, and he doesn't feel too sorry for him. Why bite the hand that feeds you? Why not help the people who saved you from being abandoned forever, who are allowing you to finally accomplish a directive you just couldn't quite reach?

"Nah, I don't," Ram mutters sorely, with his head hanging and eyes downcast. "Can't fight my own programming."

_II_

"_You're not the first to ask about my old RAM program," Roy chuckled as he pulled up a file on an outdated and extremely slow computer that Sam couldn't believe he had kept all these years. "Your father asked about it years ago. Never understood why he gave me a nickname that's based off it, but that's Flynn for you." _

_Even though Sam didn't know the full story (when his dad had told him about the Grid, which he had always assumed was imaginary, he hadn't said much about Ram other than that he was a friend) he assumed from talking to Roy that he had died sometime after meeting his dad. He didn't ask any questions, just watched silently as Roy began the process of copying the program onto a disc for him to take. And when the programmer started talking, clearly "taking a trip down memory lane" as his dad would always tease him when he zoned out, Sam didn't stop him. _

"_After your dad went missing, as you clearly know, I started looking for him. For me at least that's what 'Flynn Lives' was really about, you know? Actually finding him, not stirring up all that trouble. Because finding him would have solved all the problems ENCOM was having, after all. And…call me what you want, but maybe I can be a bit impractical sometimes. Still, I thought rewriting RAM to find him would, I dunno really, somehow be a good gesture, and…"_

_If only he knew, Sam thought, no longer paying attention to what the older programmer was saying. If only he knew that the program he had tasked with finding Flynn was far more than just lines of codes and was in fact the reflection of his soul. Or was it? There was a possibility that sitting in backup for so long—not that Roy had meant to be cruel, he couldn't possibly know what programs really were—had somehow changed the program. Hopefully he's still like Roy, Sam thought dryly, watching as the programmer put the finishing touches on the disc. Willing to help and actually able to do it. _

_Somehow, he knew even then that wouldn't be the case. _

_III_

_When Ram powers down, he dreams—an ability that not many programs have and he regards as a curse. That time, he dreamt of glittering red pixels hanging in the still air, of discs flying towards him, about to decapitate him, of tanks and recognizers chasing him relentlessly, of running and running and…most of all failure. And when he rebooted, he wondered as usual why he hadn't been de-rezzed yet and wished that he had. _

_But something was different that time; when he woke up, he wasn't where he usually was, in that accursed dark room where he figured he would degrade before getting to run another command. Instead, he was lying on his back, staring up at a dark gray sky that appeared so bright to him because he was so accustomed to the darkness. None of it computed, and he didn't even try to sit up because he felt so shaky and close to destabilization. _

"_Is there something wrong with him?" he heard an unfamiliar and rather gruff voice say in a whisper, and he nearly jolted into a sitting position in shock and amazement. At that point, he was certain he was still alive—he had de-rezzed before and knew it was akin to living in that awful, cramped room—but his awe wore off quickly in the face of a cruel realization. _

_Whoever was there—whether they were Users or programs—didn't bring him back out of sympathy. They brought him back only because they wanted something. _

IV

At this point, he's far too tired and miserable to summon the strength to argue. Resigning himself to his fate, Ram puts his head down and shuffles after the latest User intent on giving him a directive he can't possibly fulfill. What are they expecting him to find, anyways? After all, they keep calling him a "master tracker" and "one of the best in the business" but he had never found what he had been tasked to find. That was why his User had given up and moved on to other things, leaving him sitting in backup for so long he should have just deleted him to put him out of his misery. And when I fail again, he thinks miserably, staring down at the ground, I'll be sent back there…

"So," Quorra—who he's been told is an "ISO" (as if that's supposed to mean something to him)—says, clearly trying to engage him for reasons that are pretty obvious to him at least, "you were an actuarial program before?"

Snorting under his breath, a profound feeling of nostalgia washing over him, Ram mutters shortly, "Yeah. What's it mean to ya?"

Seemingly taken aback by his directness, Quorra pauses briefly before replying enthusiastically and in a way that's agonizingly familiar: "Well, it must give you an advantage, right?"

Ram has no intention of answering that question; he doesn't feel like it and thinking about those cycles causes far too many memories he's been trying to suppress. Instead, he shoots her what he hopes pass at what other more advanced programs refer to as a "death glare" and clamps his mouth shut. Just because he's being forced to help doesn't mean he's going to allow himself to get hurt again; if he accepts that he's just one small program at the mercy of more powerful Users, then he can't get hurt…right?

But, as usual, acceptance comes with a price.

This time, it's his freedom.


End file.
